


The Path Home

by little0bird



Series: Spring Returning [12]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Canon Divergence, Episode s08e06 The Iron Throne never happened, F/M, Game of Thrones Fix-It, Jon deserves some happiness, Jon needs some happiness, Matchmakers Sam and Gilly, Post Season 8
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-11
Updated: 2020-06-26
Packaged: 2021-01-27 08:03:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21388831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/little0bird/pseuds/little0bird
Summary: Jon tucked a loose lock of hair into Talla’s braid, thumb skimming over her cheek.  He leaned forward and kissed her, just the merest brush of his lips over hers. He drew back, warmth radiating through his chest.  Her hand rose, and she touched her lips with a fingertip, mouth falling open into an O. ‘I’m sorry… I…’ Jon stammered. Talla rose on her toes and pressed her mouth to his for a brief moment before she dashed into her chamber.  A faint smile curved over Jon’s lips He turned slowly on a heel and strolled down the passage to his own chamber to bathe and dress for a private family dinner. He had been kissed by fire before and had nearly been consumed by it.  Talla didn’t burn with the intense flame of dragonfire or the sun. She was more like a candle. Steady. Warm. And certainly bright enough to light his way home.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Talla Tarly
Series: Spring Returning [12]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1392991
Comments: 6
Kudos: 29





	1. Sitting in a Tree

The arrow ripped through the trees, and Jon dove for the ground. It bounced harmlessly off the apple tree to his left, landing in the grass. Jon sat up and picked up the arrow, turning it over in his hands It was headless, the tip rounded, meant for someone just learning to use a bow. Another arrow whizzed past his ear and Jon heard a muffled feminine voice blurt, ‘Oh, seven bloody hells…’ 

Jon began to chuckle softly, then held his hands up. ‘I yield,’ he called, as he approached the clearing. Sam’s sister Talla stood several paces beyond a straw target, Gilly behind her. 

Gilly held out her arms, and Jon embraced her. ‘When did you get here?’ she asked.

‘Just arrived,’ Jon told her. ‘Left the Kingsguard I brought wi’ me at the castle.’

Gilly turned to Talla. ‘You remember Sam’s sister, Talla?’ 

Jon did. The last time he’d seen her at his coronation, Talla Tarly had been dressed in the manner befitting the lady of Horn Hill in a formal gown, her hair cascading down her back in a complicated mass of curls and braids. Today she wore a loose linen shirt, roughspun trousers, a pair of sturdy shoes, hair in a simple braid. She dipped into a smooth curtsy. ‘Your Grace.’

‘Lady Tarly.’ Jon inclined his head. He indicated the bow in her hands. ‘I could help you wi’ that.’ He waggled the arrow he held in his hand.

Talla covered her mouth with a hand. ‘My apologies, Your Grace. I was trying to hit the target.’ Her cheeks went pink. 

Jon twirled the arrow and stepped behind Talla. ‘If I may…?’ At Talla’s nod, he slid a hand under Talla’s arm and brought up the bow. He moved closer, so a mere hairsbreadth separated them. 

Gilly cleared her throat. ‘I’ll leave you to it, then, shall I?’ She gave Jon a sly wink, then added, ‘Dinner will be an hour after sundown.’

Jon nodded absently and began to murmur in Talla’s ear. ‘You don’t need t’aim. The arrow will go where you look.’ He gave her the arrow, and guided her hand to the bowstring to notch the arrow. ‘Pull the string back. Smoothly… One last look at th’ target, and… loose…’ 

Talla released the bowstring, and when the arrow lodged into the very edge of the target, she squealed with delight and threw her arms around Jon. ‘I did it!’ She froze, then hastily stepped back. ‘Pardon me, Your Grace,’ she stammered, pressing her hands to her cheeks. 

‘My name is Jon.’

‘What?’

‘My name is Jon. Call me Jon.’

Talla gaped at him. ‘But…’

Jon grimaced. ‘Too many people call me “Your Grace.” There aren’t enough who call me Jon.’

Talla reached for another arrow. ‘What does Sam call you?’

‘Jon, but only because the first time he tried to call me Your Grace, I threatened to punch him if he did it again.’ Jon felt a mischievous grin spread over his face, followed by an impish chuckle.

Talla giggled with a sound like water tumbling over stones. She notched the arrow and pulled back the bowstring, the tip of her tongue poking from between her lips as she gazed intently at the target, then let the arrow fly. It skimmed the edge of the target and landed in the grass several feet behind it. ‘It’s better than it was,’ she commented, retrieving another arrow from the quiver propped against a tree trunk. 

‘Your Grace!’

‘Bloody hell…’ Jon sighed, recognizing the voice Ser Roald, one of the Riverlands Kingsguard.. He looked at Talla with a pained expression on his face. 

‘Can you climb trees?’ she asked, dropping the bow.

‘O’ course I can climb a tree. What--’

Talla grabbed his hand and began to run through the woods. Jon had no choice but to follow her through the maze of trees until they came to a large oak with thick, spreading branches. She dropped Jon’s hand and began to haul herself up the branches. ‘Come on,’ Talla hissed. ‘They’re going to find you.’ Jon tucked his hair behind his ears and reached up for one of the lower branches. He pulled himself into the green foliage, then quickly climbed to a fork, high in the swaying branches. Talla sat with her back braced against the trunk, feet dangling on either side of the large branch, leaves in her hair and smudges on her face. ‘You climbed the tree well.’

Jon chuckled noiselessly. ‘I climbed the Wall once.’

‘Sam says it’s seven hundred feet tall.’

‘It is. I felt every inch. Nearly died a couple o’ times.’ He paused as Talla put a finger to her lips. Jon craned his head to peer at the ground. Three of the Kingsguard ran past the tree, calling for him. ‘You don’t look much like a highborn lady,’ he commented, plucking a leaf from her hair once the guards were out of earshot.

Talla took in Jon’s workaday clothing of a plain linen shirt that had been dyed black, black leather jerkin, and black wool trousers tucked into a pair of worn boots. ‘You don’t look much like a king,’ she countered. ‘You barely looked like one at your own coronation. If it hadn’t been for that cloak...’ She spoke softly so as not to draw attention to their hiding place.

‘That was me sister’s doin’,’ Jon replied with a wry smile. ‘Sansa made it. Had it been up to me, I might ha’ just worn me armor.’ His Northern accent broadened as he settled on the branch next to Talla. 

‘Why black?’ Talla indicated his clothing. ‘You wore all black at the coronation, as well.’

‘Most in the North don’t wear bright colors. They tend to stick to grey, brown, or black. Pragmatic.’ Jon tugged at the collar of his shirt. ‘And I got used to black in the Watch.’ He meditatively plucked a leaf from the tree and began to shred it. ‘It reminds me o’ the vows I swore. To be the shield that guards the realms o’ men.’ 

‘Did you join the Watch voluntarily?’ Talla’s face colored. Jon knew she was thinking of the circumstances in which Sam took his vows for the Watch. ‘Forgive me. That might not be something you want to share.’

‘I joined on me own. Starks have always served in the Watch. Since the days of Bran the Builder.’ He pulled at the laces at the neck of his shirt, loosening them in deference to the summer’s heat. It was true joining the Watch had been his idea, but knowing his father was leaving for King’s Landing had provided the final push to do so. He couldn’t bear the idea of living in Winterfell with Catelyn without having Ned as a buffer between them. ‘It was best that I left Winterfell,’ he added.

‘Why?’

‘My father had three trueborn sons. My stepmother…’ Jon trailed off, rubbing his hands over his thighs. ‘She wasn’t sorry to see the back o’ me when I left.’ He didn’t know why he was telling Talla this. He barely knew her. But she had the same open, guileless demeanor as Sam that practically invited confession.

‘At least you had a choice,’ Talla said with a pensive glance through the leafy branches toward the castle. ‘I cried for days when Sam had to go.’ She fixed her gaze on a leaf until the storm in her eyes had passed. ‘My father snapped at me to save my tears for someone who deserved them.’ She let out a huff of sardonic laughter. ‘Sam was quite upset by our father’s death.’ She pulled the end of her braid over her shoulder and fussed with the ribbon tied around it. ‘I don’t know why. He treated Sam so horribly.’

‘Because he’ll never get the chance to make it right wi’ him,’ Jon ventured. ‘I didn’t think I’d mourn my stepmother. Had no reason to. She wouldn’t have shed a tear for me had I died on the Wall.’ Jon closed his eyes. He could still vividly imagine Catelyn Stark, with her icy blue eyes and striking auburn hair against the grey stones of Winterfell. The indulgent smile that she cast upon her children that faded when her eyes came to rest on him. ‘When I received word that she’d been killed… I was angry. All I ever wanted was to ask her why she could never love me, even just a little.’ He exhaled in a short, punchy breath. ‘Bloody hell,’ he murmured. “I haven’t talked to anyone like this since Ygritte…’

‘Who’s Ygritte?’ Talla stumbled a little over the unfamiliar name.

‘A girl I knew. With the free folk.’

Talla studied him, almost looking through him as Ygritte used to do. ‘You love her.’ It wasn’t an accusation, just a mere statement of fact.

‘I did. Part o’ me still does,’ Jon admitted. 

‘Where is she?’

‘She died.’ Jon shook himself. ‘I was still a boy when I met her. Just eighteen years old and I knew nothing,’ he said ruefully. Jon waved a hand in the direction of Highgarden’s castle. ‘She would ha’ hated all this. Would ha’ said she couldn’t breathe.’

‘She’s not wrong,’ Talla said tartly. When Jon glanced at her in surprise, she added, ‘Just because one is born here, it doesn’t automatically follow that one does not chafe under the restrictions of tradition or custom.’ She leaned closer to Jon. ‘I was not sad to hear my father had died.’ She stared intently into Jon’s eyes. ‘It meant I was free. I didn’t have to marry the man old enough to be my grandfather that my father chose for me. I could breathe.’ She brushed impatiently at the strands of hair that blew into her eyes. ‘The only child my father truly loved was Dickon, because he was a younger version of himself. You know how he felt about Sam. As for me… I was just a girl he would have to purchase a husband for.’ She let out a rather unladylike snort. ‘The main requirement to receive my father’s affections was to have a cock.’

‘Does Sam know you know that word?’ Jon teased.

‘No.’ Talla grinned. ‘Let’s not tell him. He might faint.’

* * *

Talla indicated one of the doors in the long corridor. ‘This one is mine,’ she murmured. She took a step toward the door, but Jon’s grip on her hand drew her back to him. 

Jon tucked a loose lock of hair into Talla’s braid, thumb skimming over her cheek. He leaned forward and kissed her, just the merest brush of his lips over hers. He drew back, warmth radiating through his chest. Her hand rose, and she touched her lips with a fingertip, mouth falling open into an O. ‘I’m sorry… I…’ Jon stammered. Talla rose on her toes and pressed her mouth to his for a brief moment before she dashed into her chamber. A faint smile curved over Jon’s lips He turned slowly on a heel and strolled down the passage to his own chamber to bathe and dress for a private family dinner. He had been kissed by fire before and had nearly been consumed by it. Talla didn’t burn with the intense flame of dragonfire or the sun. She was more like a candle. Steady. Warm. And certainly bright enough to light his way home. 

‘So, I see you’ve gotten acquainted with Talla.’ Jon drew himself up short. Sam emerged from the shadows. ‘You seem to like outspoken girls. And she’s gotten more outspoken since, well…’ He made a small gesture with his hands and sat on a bench near Jon’s chamber door.

Jon dropped to the bench next to Sam, suspicions beginning to coalesce in his head. He gazed thoughtfully at the door to Talla’s chamber, before his eyes slid to his own chamber door, just down the corridor. ‘Did you deliberately invite her t’ Highgarden the same time as me?’

Sam’s nose wrinkled. ‘Oh… Well…’ He laughed a little nervously. ‘You seem so lonely.’

‘Sam…’

‘Hear me out,’ Sam interrupted, holding up a hand. ‘How long have I known you?’

‘Nine years, I suppose.’

‘When you were named Lord Commander, it isolated you. Between Mance Rayder’s attack on the Wall, sending me off to the Citadel, and Maester Aemon dying, you really didn’t have anyone that you could really talk to. I didn’t think that through when I put your name forth for Lord Commander,’ Sam admitted, with a healthy dose of sheepishness. ‘Same with you being named king. You don’t have anybody.’

‘I have you,’ Jon countered. ‘And Davos.’

‘It’s not the same,’ Sam declared. ‘Meeting Gilly was the best thing that’s ever happened to me, besides meeting you,’ Sam interjected. ‘Without her, I wouldn’t have Little Sam or Shireen. When the day ends, they don’t care that I’m the lord of Highgarden. And I couldn’t do any of this without Gilly.’ He bumped Jon with his shoulder. ‘You need that. You need someone you can tell all your deepest, darkest secrets to and they won’t run away screaming in the night.’

‘But I’m a bastard,’ Jon protested weakly.

‘You’re not. Not really. As far as Westeros is concerned you are, but you know it doesn’t matter to me. And it won’t to Talla.’ Sam paused, gesturing to Jon’s face. ‘I don’t remember the last time I saw you smile like that.’


	2. Sweeter Than Wine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He held out a hand to Talla and helped her to her feet. She shivered a little, wrapped the shawl a little more snugly around her shoulders. Jon released her hand and turned to his bed. He flipped the bedding back. ‘Get in. I can see the gooseflesh from over here.’ Talla slid under the warm blankets, and leaned back against the pillows stacked against the headboard. Jon climbed onto the bed and sat against the footboard, facing Talla. 
> 
> ‘Aren’t you cold?’ Talla asked, snuggling into blankets. 
> 
> ‘I grew up in th’ North,’ Jon reminded her. ‘This isn’t cold.’
> 
> Talla’s head cocked to one side. ‘There’s plenty of room…’ She folded back the bedding in clear invitation.
> 
> ‘It wouldn’t be proper,’ Jon protested, his voice trailing off. They already skirted the line of propriety as it was, if not outright crossed it.

Talla dismissed her maid, and pulled the pins from her hair, shaking out the braids coiled around her head. She picked up the hairbrush from the table and began to run it through her hair, counting the strokes under her breath. Too restless to sit, she wandered the perimeter of the room. It wasn’t the chamber she had been given in previous visits to Highgarden. Sam has been most insistent she come to Highgarden and become better acquainted with his closest friend. Jon’s chamber, she’d noticed, was just the next one down. She had her suspicions about the nature of the invitation, what with Sam and Gilly comically tripping over themselves to ensure she sat next to Jon at dinner.

She stopped in front of a cupboard, and wondered, not for the first time this visit why it was placed in such an inconvenient location. It had been tucked into a corner, which made it impossible to fully open one door. Her maid had complained about it, because the drawers wouldn't open. Talla couldn’t understand why it remained there, but who could tell with the Tyrells? Perhaps old Lady Olenna had a reason for it to be there. She tossed her hairbrush to the bed and studied the side of the cupboard she could see. She could perhaps ask someone to move it a little, if only to appease her maid, but then she noticed it was attached to the wall. Curiously, she opened the cupboard, and ran her hands over the back. Huge castles like this had to have hidden passages. They always did in the stories she’d read when she was younger. Talla found a cleverly hidden latch in the guise of a hook. To her utter delight, the back of the cupboard swung open on slightly protesting hinges, revealing a short hidden passage. Talla darted across the room and picked up one of the candles next to her bed. She held it up as she peered into the dark passageway. She reached back to the foot of the bed and snagged her shawl, then stepped into the cupboard, the sense of adventure lighting up her eyes.

* * *

  
Jon closed the door and bolted it, then immediately began prowling around the chamber. He felt restless. Perhaps he could take Ghost for a romp in the orchard. Jon glanced at the direwolf, stretched out on the hearth, snoring peacefully. ‘Living in the south’s made you soft,’ Jon huffed. Ghost lifted his head long enough to yawn widely in Jon’s direction, then rolled onto his back, all four paws in the air. Just as well. If Jon left, he’d have to take at least two Kingsguard with him. Most of the time it didn’t bother Jon, but he sorely missed the freedom to come and go without two heavily armed men trailing after him. 

He unlaced his jerkin and set it aside, slowly peeling off the layers of King Jon, First of His Name. The clothes were finer than anything he’d ever worn, even as a child in Winterfell. Though they were dyed a comforting and familiar black, the feel of silk and finely-woven linen and wool felt strange against his skin. He eschewed the aid of a squire or body servant, although he was well within his rights to have one. It reminded him that he was Jon Snow, the bastard of Winterfell, and despite the identity of the man who had fathered him, he hadn’t been brought up for this life. Jon opened the cupboard and retrieved the old and worn breeches and linen shirt he usually wore for sleeping, and quickly pulled them on. He neatly folded his clothes and started to put them in the cupboard, but something about it seemed off to him. Not that he knew much about the placement of furniture, but Sansa would have had plenty to say about it. He could hear her now, complaining that it was too close to the corner of the room. Jon stowed his clothes on one of the shelves, then stood studying it. It appeared to have been built into the wall. Jon shrugged, then turned away, chalking it up to an odd southern custom. 

Ghost woke all at once and trotted to the cupboard, sniffing at the cupboard door Jon had left ajar. He pawed it open then shoved his head inside and began to whine softly. ‘What is it, boy?’ Ghost lifted a paw and scratched at the back of the cupboard. It sounded hollow to Jon’s ears. He began to run his hands over the back. One of the hooks wobbled as his fingertips brushed it. The back of the cupboard swung open, revealing Talla, standing in the dark passage, clutching a candle in one hand and a shawl in the other. Without thinking, Jon grasped her by the wrist and drew her through the cupboard and into his chamber. 

‘I… I…’ Talla gestured with the hand that held the candle. ‘I found a hidden passageway and I thought I should discover where it ended. And so I have.’ She bobbed a flustered curtsey at Jon. She hadn’t expected him discover the hidden doorway to the passage as well. It seemed a far too frivolous endeavor for someone as solemn as Jon. ‘Your Grace.’

Jon took the candle and set it on the mantle of the fireplace, then pulled the shawl from her lax fingers and draped it around her shoulders. ‘Jon.’

‘What?’

‘We spoke about this earlier. My name is Jon, no’ Your Grace.’

Talla’s eyes flicked to the cupboard. ‘I ought to go back to my chamber.’ She indicated their combined state of undress. ’The gossip would destroy any chance I have of making a good marriage should anyone discover me in here.’ She said it more out of custom than an actual desire to leave, reciting it in the dull tone she’d often used with her septa.

‘Is there anyone coming to tend to you?’

‘No. I sent my maid to bed.’ Talla’s mouth curved in a smile. ‘Is anyone going to come through your door? A squire or a page, perhaps? The Kingsguard?’

‘No.’ Jon gestured to the cupboard with his chin. ‘Did you know it was there?’ 

Talla’s smile brightened with mischief. ‘No. But I think Sam and Gilly did.’

Jon chuckled softly, recalling his conversation with Sam. ‘I believe you’re right.’ He thought he ought to feel perturbed at Sam and Gilly’s thinly veiled attempts at matchmaking, but Talla’s company was a welcome distraction from his duties and responsibilities. He felt a decided lack of tension when he was with her. He didn’t have to be anyone other than who he was. Ghost’s cold nose shoved the back of his hand and he let out a quiet yip. ‘I’ve forgotten my manners.’ Jon stroked Ghost’s head. ‘Talla, this is Ghost. Ghost, allow me to introduce Lady Talla Tarly. She’s Sam’s sister.’

To her credit, Talla crouched down in front of Ghost and held out a hand for him sniff. ‘Hullo, Ghost. I’ve heard many things about you from Sam and Gilly.’ Ghost licked her knuckles and pushed his head into her chest. She obliged him by scratching him under the chin. Ghost’s eyes closed to slits with pleasure and he plopped to the floor, rolling to his back and gazing at Talla with a beseeching light in his red eyes. ‘Oh, very well.’ She laughed and ran both hands over his exposed underbelly. Ghost’s tongue lolled from his mouth.

‘All right, you can flirt wi’ her tomorrow,’ Jon told Ghost. The direwolf sighed with palpable disappointment and trudged back to his place on the hearth. He folded himself to the flagstones and rested his muzzle on his paws, heaving a put-upon sigh. Jon gave Talla another thoughtful glance. Ghost had never behaved in such a way with Daenerys. That alone should have given him pause about his relationship with her. Ghost had avoided Daenerys as much as possible. He held out a hand to Talla and helped her to her feet. She shivered a little, wrapped the shawl a little more snugly around her shoulders. Jon released her hand and turned to his bed. He flipped the bedding back. ‘Get in. I can see the gooseflesh from over here.’ Talla slid under the warm blankets, and leaned back against the pillows stacked against the headboard. Jon climbed onto the bed and sat against the footboard, facing Talla. 

‘Aren’t you cold?’ Talla asked, snuggling into blankets. 

‘I grew up in th’ North,’ Jon reminded her. ‘This isn’t cold.’

Talla’s head cocked to one side. ‘There’s plenty of room…’ She folded back the bedding in clear invitation.

‘It wouldn’t be proper,’ Jon protested, his voice trailing off. They already skirted the line of propriety as it was, if not outright crossed it.

Talla giggled. ‘And this is proper?’ She spread her hands to encompass the bed. She leaned forward a bit and tugged at one of the numerous pillows and laid it down the middle. ‘My side, your side.’ She pointed to Longclaw in the rack. ‘Or you could do as they did in the old tales and put your sword between us.’ Talla primly folded her hands together. ‘I assure you, Your Grace, that your virtue is safe with me.’

Jon gnawed his thumbnail for a long moment, then clambered under the blankets. He plopped the pillow in the middle of the bed back against the headboard then stretched out on the mattress with a sigh.

Talla rolled onto her side, facing Jon. ‘What’s the Wall like? Other than big and cold?’

‘The Wall is… forbidding. It’s a crucible. Strips away everything but the essential part o’ you.’ Jon toyed with the edge of a blanket. ‘It reveals who you are.’ He gazed at the hangings overhead, seeing the men who willingly followed him into battle. The free folk who put their trust in him. Sam and Bran revealing his true parentage. The throne room on the day of his coronation. ‘Who you were always meant to be.’ His head turned on the pillow toward Talla. ‘I ran away from it for a very long time. Until I didn’t have a choice.’

‘Why?’

‘I never wanted to lead.’ Jon shifted to his side. ‘That’s not entirely true,’ he amended. ‘Until I understood what it meant to be Jon Snow instead o’ Jon Stark, I did want to be the lord o’ Winterfell.’ His mouth twisted wryly. ‘I was quickly disabused o’ that notion when me brother Robb and I were playing. You know… We would pretend to be King Robert or Ser Duncan the Tall. One day, I shouted that I would be the Lord o’ Winterfell. Robb stopped and informed me that could never happen because I was a bastard. I didn’t know what the word meant. I was only seven. But the way he said it…’ Jon squeezed his hands together. ‘Had he cut me wi’ a dagger, it would have hurt less.’ He shrugged. ‘After that, I felt I couldn’t lead. I thought that as a bastard, I wasn’t…’ Jon made a slight motion with his hand. 

‘Good enough?’ Talla supplied.

‘Yes.’

‘And now?’ 

Jon snorted with ironic laughter. ’No one’s tried to murder me this time.’ He laid a hand flat over one of the half-healed wounds in his chest. ‘I’ll take that as a good sign.’

Talla frowned. ‘This time?’

Jon sat up and gathered the hem of his shirt in his hands and after a moment’s hesitation, pulled it over his head. Davos and Tormund were the only two people alive who knew the truth behind the wounds. Talla would become the third. ‘And now his watch is ended,’ he told her, his mouth twisted with self-consciousness.

Talla slowly sat up. She reached out, fingers trembling and traced the half-healed wound over Jon’s heart. ‘Does it hurt?’

‘No.’

‘You died…?’

Jon nodded, recalling that first breath. Gasping as if someone had held him underwater until his lungs were fit to burst. ‘I couldn’t tell you why I’m alive right now. Or whether it was the old gods, the Seven, or the Lord of Light that decided I deserved to live.’ He slipped his shirt back on, the memory of the deep, unrelenting blackness of death making him shiver. ‘I’d do it again, though,’ he admitted. ‘Make the unpopular decision because it’s the right one.’

‘Who did this to you?’

Jon picked up one of Talla’s hands and began to trace the lines in her palm. ‘Some other members o’ the Watch. They felt that by bringing the free folk through the Wall, I had betrayed the Watch.’

‘Had you?’ 

‘Depends on your perspective, I suppose.’ Jon lay back against the pillows, pulling Talla down with him. Her head nestled just under his collarbone. ‘To them, the free folk were our enemy. To me, they were people who needed sanctuary and shelter from the army o’ the dead.’

Talla shifted until she could prop her chin in the center of Jon’s chest. ‘You are far too good for this world, Jon Snow.’

Jon’s eyes crinkled with his smile. He tucked a lock of Talla’s hair behind her ear, then pulled her closer until he could kiss her. ‘I’m pleased someone thinks so.’

* * *

Jon woke with the aroma of apple blossoms in his nose and something warm and solid in his arms. Talla still slumbered, her head pillowed on his shoulder. He squinted at the window. The horizon was pink with the eminent dawn. Podrick expected him at dawn in the training yard. If he was late, Podrick would sound the alarm, and the chances of someone discovering Talla in his bed were quite high. ‘Talla…’

‘Hmmm?’ She rubbed her face against his chest.

‘We fell asleep.’ Jon combed his fingers through her hair. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d slept half as well as he had the previous night. ‘You need to go back to your bed.’

Talla blinked sleepily at him. ‘Why don’t you go back to my bed?’ she murmured, burrowing under the blankets.

Jon grinned crookedly and gestured to the door. ‘Because any minute now, the Kingsguard are goin’ to wonder where I am, and break down the door. And your reputation will be ruined.’

‘Oh, the horror,’ she yawned. ‘Then I shall be forced to marry you.’ Talla stretched up and pressed a kiss to the side of Jon’s neck. 

‘You don’t want to marry me,’ Jon told her, hands sliding over her back. 

Talla snorted and shifted until she straddled Jon, knees on either side of his hips. ‘Better you than the positively ancient man my father picked out.’ 

‘Then you’d have to be queen,’ Jon mumbled, arms tightening around her. 

‘That would mean my tree-climbing days would be over,’ Talla sighed. 

‘Not entirely.’ Jon’s hand skimmed down her back to her hip. At this moment, Podrick and the rest of the Kingsguard could go bugger themselves. 

Jon’s chamber door rattled. ‘Your Grace?’ Podrick called softly through the door. ‘Are you unwell?’

‘I’ll be out in just a moment, Podrick,’ Jon replied.

‘I suppose I should go.’ Talla climbed over Jon and slid from the bed with great reluctance. She paused to give Ghost a scratch behind his ears, then slipped through the hidden door. Jon rolled onto his stomach, feeling a giddiness he’d never experienced before. 

* * *

Jon strolled into the bright airy solar of Highgarden, humming under his breath, Ghost trotting beside him. Talla was seated at the round table, absently licking a smear of raspberry jam from her thumb, apparently only half-listening to Sam natter on about something or other, while Gilly spooned porridge into Shireen’s mouth. Jon stopped next to her chair, inclining his head. ‘Lady Tarly.’

Talla glanced up, then stood and dropped into a low, formal curtsey. ‘Your Grace.’ She resumed her seat. ‘I trust you slept well.’

‘Tolerably well,’ Jon replied, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing at the crestfallen expression on Sam’s face. Sam then flinched and emitted a muffled ‘Ow.’ Gilly glared at him wide-eyed, so Sam managed to school his face into something more neutral. Jon winked at Talla and took the seat next to her. Sam’s face immediately brightened and he gave Gilly a significant look. 

Talla tapped Jon’s ankle under the table with the toe of her shoe. ‘There seems to be a hidden passage in my bedchamber.’

‘Oh?’ Gilly swiped a damp cloth over Shireen’s face. ‘Imagine that.’ She said with such an exaggerated air of innocence, that Talla nudged Jon’s ankle under the table again. 

‘Is there?’ Sam’s guileless expression was just as melodramatic as Gilly’s. ‘That sounds fascinating. Did you happen to explore it further?’ He picked up a chunk of warm bread and buttered it, then spread it with raspberry jam, quite forgetting he despised raspberries. 

‘Of course not,’ Talla replied with indignation. ‘It was late, and I was quite alone.’

‘Right.’ Sam looked quite dejected at the idea that she hadn’t gone down the passageway to Jon’s chamber.

‘Perhaps you’d like to show Jon around the gardens after breakfast,’ Gilly suggested brightly. 

‘Oh, yes! They’re quite lovely.’ Sam nodded encouragingly. 

Jon buried his nose into a cup of nettle tea to hide the suppressed laughter on his face. He did wonder how far Sam and Gilly would go and made a mental note to avoid the sept at all costs, lest he find a waiting septon.

* * *

Talla glanced behind her at the man in golden armor. He walked several paces behind them, one hand on his sword. Another man, dressed in the style of Dorne carried a spear, head constantly moving, eyes darting into the shadows. ‘Are you ever truly alone?’

‘No.’ Jon gestured to a bench under the branches of a hawthorne tree. It had been a hard price to pay, to know he’d never have complete privacy again. That the Kingsguard gave him as wide a berth as they did here was testament to their acknowledgement of his skills as a swordsman, not to mention Ghost’s near-constant presence at his side. 

Talla perched on the edge of the bench, arranging her skirts over her knees. ‘That must feel confining.’ 

‘It is.’ Jon rested his hand on the bench next to Talla’s, the smallest finger just brushing hers. He looked out over the orderly rows of roses. ‘I don’t suppose you’d leave your cupboard open later. Say after everyone’s gone to bed?’

Talla curled her finger around Jon’s. ‘I might.’

‘Hmmm. Ghost likes you. Maybe he’ll pay you a visit.’ Jon moved his hand to cover Talla’s, thumb grazing across her wrist. 

‘I’d like that. You can tell Ghost that his companion is also welcome.’ Talla glanced at Jon from the corner of her eye. ‘I wonder if I might trouble you for another archery lesson this afternoon.’ A rosy blush stole over her cheeks. As much as she had enjoyed the previous night, archery lessons would give them an opportunity to talk, without arousing Sam and Gilly’s suspicions. 

Jon grinned. ’I’ll meet you in th’ orchard.’

* * *

Jon followed Ghost through the passage to Talla’s chamber, carrying a skin of apple wine, made from the fruit of Highgarden’s orchards. Talla sat in the middle of her bed, tying off the end of her braid. ‘What if I invited you into my bed?’ Talla asked without preamble. ‘To do… more… than sleep.’ They’d spent the past several nights in each other’s beds, their conversations and slumber punctuated by kisses and caresses that had only grown bolder. It remained the only place where no Kingsguard or nosy brothers lurked around every turn. 

Jon squirmed, knowing what he was about to say was terribly hypocritical. ‘You would be ruined,’ he told her weakly, pouring the wine into two cups and handing one to Talla.

‘Ruined?’ The snort Talla gave him would have done credit to a man twice her size. ‘How am I ruined?’ She took the cup he offered and sipped it.

‘Women are supposed to be virgins when they wed…’ Jon trailed off with a wince, knowing full well what salvo she would fire next. He drained his cup and quickly refilled it.

‘And men aren’t?’ Talla’s dark eyes simmered with incipient irritation. One brow slowly drifted upward as she waited for Jon’s reply. ‘Why is my virginity valued more than yours?’ Before Jon could open his mouth to answer her, she added, ‘And don’t give me that nonsense about knowing whether or not a child is the husband’s. Wives can and do sleep with men other than their husbands and present them with offspring that are not of his seed.’

‘You’re no’ wrong.’ Jon sank to the edge of the bed, swirling the wine in hs cup. 

‘It’s infuriating.’ Talla ‘My entire worth as a person depends on whether or not I’ve been with a man. A woman indulges once and the septons would have you believe the world as we know it is going to end. Men can work their way through a brothel, and they’re celebrated for it.’ 

‘Celebrated’s a bit strong.’ Jon slid back until he sat next to Talla, folding his legs tailor-style. 

Talla tossed the end of her braid over her shoulder. ‘I’m sure you’ve had your share…’

‘Two,’ Jon blurted, feeling his face burn.

’Two?’

‘Only two. Not that I didn’t want to…’ Jon made a gesture with his free hand. ‘But I was afraid that there would be a child. I didn’t want to burden a child with bastardy.’

‘And now?’

‘I want you so badly, I can barely think,’ Jon said baldly. ‘But I want to do more than bed you.’ He drew in a deep breath. ‘Come to King’s Landing wi’ Sam.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In some tales, when an unmarried man and woman are forced to share a bed, they would sleep with a sword between them, as a symbol of their chastity and virtue.


	3. Give You All of Me

Talla belatedly covered her mouth with a hand as she yawned, following the sound of clashing steel to a small courtyard that jutted into Blackwater Bay. She didn’t mind rising early, but this was torture. The sun had yet to rise. Talla tilted her head back and examined the horizon. There was only a streak of pink in the eastern edge in an otherwise pearlescent grey sky. She trudged down the winding, uneven stairs and perched on one of the rough-hewn risers next to Ghost, tugging her shawl snugly around her shoulders against the early morning chill. 

Podrick and Jon shuffled in a circle, the dull edges of tourney swords scraping against one another with discordant screeches. Jon hooked one foot behind Podrick’s, and they tumbled to the ground. Podrick’s sword skittered across the flagstones, just out of reach of his grasping fingers. Jon then put the toe of one boot on Podrick’s wrist, and then laid the edge of the blade against Podrick’s throat. ‘I yield,’ Podrick grunted.

‘You let me win that one,’ Jon chided as he scrambled to his feet and offered Podrick a hand. He saw Talla and raised his other hand in greeting. Not for the first time, he resented the ubiquitous presence of the Kingsguard. ‘Pod, go find somethin’ else t’do.’

Podrick retrieved his sword and collected Jon’s. ‘You know I can’t do that, Your Grace.’

‘Then go up th’ stairs far enough so you can’t hear us.’ He’d chosen this particular courtyard for his sparring session with Podrick for its relative privacy. It was highly unlikely that anyone would overhear what he had to tell Talla. 

‘Yes, Your Grace.’ Podrick gave Jon a short bow and headed for the staircase, pausing long enough to bow to Talla. ‘M’lady.’

‘Ser Podrick.’ Talla stood and shook out her skirts. She joined Jon at the edge of the courtyard and slid her arm through his. ’You said you had something you needed to tell me?’

Jon sank to the low wall that bordered the courtyard, pulling Talla to sit beside him. The hand that clutched hers was cold and clammy. He wiped his other hand down the side of his trousers. ‘You can’t marry me unless you know who I am.’

Talla twisted a little to face him. The light in her eyes dimmed a little with her frown. She knew well his insecurities and cursed every single person, be they living or dead, that had made him feel undeserving of basic respect, let alone love and affection. She hadn’t missed the bemusement that crossed his face when the assembled court knelt in obeisance. He obviously hadn’t expected it. So solemn. So determined to be the sort of ruler the country needed. To be the sort of ruler that would make his father proud. Unpretentious in dress and manner to the point where foreign envoys often mistook Robyn Arryn or Quentyn Martell — who dressed like peacocks — for the king. He’d freely invited a boatload of starving Meereenese refugees to settle in Westeros, with no conditions. He was a man that would climb trees to find a few moments’ peace from the ever-present Kingsguard. Sprawl on the floor with Little Sam and Shireen, let them climb all over him, their hands sticky with jam. ‘Who you…? I know who you are.’

‘Who my parents are.’ He let go of her hand and began to pace the length of the courtyard. ‘Eddard Stark raised me as his bastard, gave me th’ same education as his trueborn sons. He could ha’ fostered me somewhere else. Left me in Dorne…’ Jon stepped up onto the low wall and contemplated the deep blue water that surrounded them. He took in a lungful of the salt-scented air, and stood poised like a bird about to take wing. ‘I should start at th’ beginning.’ He hopped off the wall and sat next to Talla, unable to refrain from fidgeting. ‘My mother was Eddard Stark’s sister, Lyanna.’

Talla glanced up sharply. ‘Then that would make your father —‘

‘Rhaegar Targaryen.’ Jon squeezed his hands together and tucked them between his knees to try and stop their shaking. His shoulders hunched as he tried to make himself as small as possible.

‘How long have you known?’

‘Just a couple o’years. Found out just before th’ battle at Winterfell.’ Jon’s mouth worked a few times, then he blurted, ‘Gilly found th’ journal o’th’ septon that married my mother and father. He recorded it in his journal.’ He stole a look at Talla from the corner of his eye. He didn’t know how to explain Bran and the Three-Eyed Raven. ‘And my brother, Bran… he can… see things…’

‘In dreams?’

Jon shook his head. ‘Visions.’ One shoulder hitched. ‘In th’ North, we’d call him a Greenseer. He can see things in th’ past as if he were there.’ His eyes closed for the space of a breath. ‘Bran and Sam told me about Rhaegar and Lyanna.’

Talla scooted closer to Jon, not quite touching him. She thought if she did, he might bolt. ‘Who else knows?’

’Sansa and Arya. Tyrion.’ Jon gulped and abruptly stood. ‘I thought you should know. Before we say anything to the Small Council. So you can decide if you still want me…’

‘Why wouldn’t I?’

‘What?’

‘Why would I not want to marry you?’

‘Every time a Targaryen is born, th’ gods toss a coin in th’ air, and th’ world holds its breath t’see how it will land,’ Jon quoted, his throat tightening more with each word. Tears stung his eyes and he rubbed his thumb hard between his brows to keep them at bay. 

Talla let out an unladylike snort. ‘Not just Targaryens.’ She got to her feet and wound her arms around Jon’s waist, resting her cheek against his back. ’Do you feel murderous rage when someone thwarts you?’

‘No.’

‘Or an urge to harm people because you enjoy it?’

Jon shuddered. He didn’t revel in punishing people, as a rule, but he could count one one hand the number of times he’d taken pleasure in delivering someone’s comeuppance. He would freely admit to feeling savage delight in beating Ramsay Bolton to a bloody pulp, though. ‘No. Never.’

Talla ducked under Jon’s arm, edging around him until she stood in front of him. ‘Do you see plots against you in every shadow and corner?’

Jon ran both hands over her hair. ‘I don’t trust people as easily as I once did. But I don’t believe Edmure Tully is plottin’ wi’ Robin Arryn to take the throne from me.’ He tilted her head back and brushed his mouth over hers. ‘Although, he’s welcome to it.’

Talla giggled and tightened her arms around Jon. ‘He would be awful. He’s a priggish twit.’

They shared a quiet laugh, but the playfulness faded from Jon’s face, replaced with a somber thoughtfulness. He tucked a lock of hair behind one of her ears. ‘Think about it.’

‘All right. I will —’

‘I understand if you decide you can’t…’ Jon interrupted. ‘Take all th’ time you need.’

Talla laid her fingertips gently over Jon’s mouth. ‘Stop talking.’ She leaned back just enough so she could meet Jon’s apprehensive gaze. ‘I will marry you.’

‘Even knowing who my father was?’ Wariness roughened his voice.

Talla brushed back one of Jon’s errant curls that had escaped its binding. ‘You aren’t your father. Not the one who sired you, or the one who raised you. You’re not a Targaryen or a Stark… or even a Snow when you’re with me.’

‘No?’ Jon’s brow cocked upward. ‘Then what am I?’

Talla wound her arms around Jon’s neck and rose on her toes. Her nose brushed against his. ‘Mine.’

He let out a slow breath and the tension drained from his body. ‘I want t’do it in th’ North. Not just here in th’ way o’ th’ Old Gods. In the godswood o’ Winterfell. In front o’ th’ heart tree.’

‘The Small Council won’t like that.’

‘The Small Council can bugger themselves.’

* * *

‘Don’t you see? You must marry in the Faith of the Seven.’

Talla sat next to Jon, her hands folded primly on her lap, gazing at Edmure Tully with barely concealed dislike.

‘But I don’t pray to th’ Seven,’ Jon explained, yet again, feigning a level of patience he didn’t feel. ‘Marriage is a vow. And I don’t intend t’take vows in th’ name o’ gods I don’t believe in.’

‘And the majority of the Seven Kingdoms don’t pray to the Old Gods,’ Edmure shot back through clenched teeth. He exhaled, glaring at the ceiling. ‘It is imperative that you demonstrate unanimity with the kingdom over which you rule.’ Edmure jabbed a finger at Talla. ‘And your choice of bride follows the Faith of the Seven.’

‘Lord Tully,’ Talla began, her quiet voice landing with the force of a shout, ‘need I remind you that the head of house Tarly follows the Old Gods, and has for quite some time?’ She smoothed her skirts over her knees. ‘So it wouldn’t be out of the question for for my brother to condone a ceremony in the ways of the Old Gods.’

‘Which I do,’ Sam interjected.

‘And this isn’t some relatively private marriage between minor houses,’ Edmure spat. He glared at the other people clustered around the table. ‘Someone do try to speak sense into them.’ He plopped into his chair with a huff. ‘This is a grand occasion. It should be treated as one.’

Davos leaned closer to Jon. ’Wedding ceremonies are rarely for the couple actually getting married. They’re for everyone else.’ Jon grimaced, his mouth compressed into a tight line. ‘And yours especially is for everyone else.’

Jon heaved a sigh and glanced at Talla with an upraised brow. She gave him a nod in return. ‘Very well.’ Edmure beamed in exultation. ‘Wi’ one condition.’ It gave Jon no small sense of satisfaction to watch the expression fall from Edmure’s face. ‘No beddin’ ceremony.’

Edmure nearly turned purple. ‘But it’s tradition!’ he spluttered. ‘You must. To ensure the marriage is consummated.’

Both of Sam’s brows shot up. ‘Oh? Because that worked out so well for you, then?’ He gave Edmure a bland look and Yara choked on muffled laughter, burying her nose in a cup of wine. Edmure sat back with a huff. 

Jon ignored Sam and Yara’s antics and continued. ‘After a _modest_ celebration, Lady Tarly and I will go t’ Winterfell and marry according to the traditions o’ my ancestors.’

‘Why? You will already be married. It’s unnecessary,’ Edmure countered dismissively.

‘I’m a Northerner,’ Jon said, as if it explained everything. He didn’t owe them an explanation beyond that. Not after he’d given in to what was certain to turn into a spectacle, despite his protests. Men like Edmure clung ever more tightly to the past as the world changed around them. The mischievous part of Jon — small that it was — briefly imagined what Edmure’s reaction might be if he declared his intentions to marry Talla in the manner of the free folk. _Can’t get more Northern than that_.

Still, it was far more complicated than it seemed at first glance. Jon was keenly aware he needed to send a signal to the North, especially after they felt he’d betrayed them with Daenerys. He was still a Northerner. His children would be Northerners. They wouldn’t inherit the crown — not that he’d want them to — but Last Hearth would be theirs.

_You know nothing, Jon Snow._

_But I do know some things…_ He had learned some hard lessons when he was Lord Commander, then King in the North that had come at great cost. 

He wouldn’t make the same mistakes again.

Jon pushed his chair back and stood. ‘Are we done here?’ He offered Talla his hand, and she took it, rising gracefully. 

‘That ought t’do it.’ Davos carefully scrawled a few notes on a scrap of parchment. ‘Lord Tully and I will settle some details. I will bring them t’you in th’ morning, Your Grace.’

‘Thank you.’ Jon nodded at the table. ‘My lords. My lady.’ 

* * *

The kitchen boys left, leaving the meal spread on the round table in Jon’s chamber. 

Talla waited until their muffled voices faded, and then pushed her chair back. She rose to her feet, crossed to the door, and eased the bolt home, so it slid into its slot nearly soundlessly. She slipped her feet from her shoes, and padded to where Jon still sat in his chair, then straddled his lap. ‘Two more months. Are you nervous about the ceremony?’

‘At this moment? No’ really. We _can_ cancel it,’ Jon teased, sweeping her hair over her shoulders. 

Talla’s dimples appeared briefly. ‘That would give Edmure Tully some sort of apoplexy. He’s managed to expand it from two days of festivities to an entire week.’ She rested her forehead against Jon’s, and her shoulders rose and fell with her sigh. ‘It’s only that the ceremony in the sept is to satisfy the Small Council and the Seven Kingdoms. To marry King Jon to Lady Tarly.’ She toyed with the laces of Jon’s jerkin, untying each of them. ‘As if you and I are merely actors in their play.’

Jon closed one hand around her ankle, then slid it up the back of her calf and untied her garter. He grinned and worked the stocking down and dropped it. ‘Th’ wedding in Winterfell is ours,’ he murmured against her lips, untying the other garter. The other stocking joined its twin.

Talla gave Jon a look of profound skepticism. ‘The wedding in Winterfell is for the North. So the Lord of Last Hearth can remind the rest of the kingdom he is — and shall always be — a Northerner. To ensure the North accepts his choice of bride.’ She didn’t miss the fleeting chagrin that crossed Jon’s face before he kissed her. She knew just as well as he that even the intimate decisions of their lives would be governed by politics. It wasn’t enough to marry Jon in the according to the traditions of the old gods. She had to embrace the Northern culture and ensure their children were steeped in ways of the North.

‘You’re right,’ Jon allowed, his lips sliding down to the pulse that beat in the hollow of her throat. ‘But the wedding in Winterfell will just ha’ family. No protocol. No egos t’consider.’ His mouth grazed over her collarbone while one hand skimmed up her leg. Jon paused, then his fingertips glided over the curve of her bare bottom. His brow rose. ’You seem t’ ha’ forgotten something.’

‘No. I haven’t.’ Talla reached for the laces of her dress and untied them. She shrugged the heavy silk from her shoulders and let it slither to the floor, leaving her clad in only a gauzy shift. Talla grasped the end of the lacing at the neck of Jon’s shirt. She pulled it slowly until the loose knot unraveled and bared the column of his throat. Talla bent her head and pressed her mouth to his. ‘Are you hungry at all?’ she murmured against his lips.

‘No’ for food.’ 

‘Gilly says that in the real North…’ She trailed off as Jon’s hand slid between her thighs, thumb brushing over a spot that made her gasp. ‘She says men try to kidnap women…’ Whatever she had intended to say was lost in a muffled groan as Jon’s thumb continued its leisurely journey.

‘Hmmmm.’ Jon shifted his weight forward, the muscles in his thighs bunching. He nuzzled the side of her neck, just under her ear. ‘Beyond the Wall they do. They try. Some fail. Some succeed.’ 

‘And they’re married?’ Talla breathed, head falling back. 

’If he succeeds in carryin’ her off.’ Jon smirked, following her question to its logical conclusion. ‘Are you askin’ me t’try an’ kidnap you?’

‘Yes.’ Talla’s mouth moved over his with agonizing slowness before she deepened the kiss. 

His teeth grazed her collarbone, exposed by the wide neckline of her shift. ‘We really shouldn’t…’ he breathed. 

‘But it will be _ours_. Not the Small Council’s. Not the North’s.’

That settled it for Jon. He wrapped Talla’s legs around his waist and stood, turning toward the bed. ‘You’re supposed t’fight back,’ Jon informed her gravely. ‘Wouldn’t be proper north o’ the Wall otherwise.’ 

‘Oh, help,’ Talla murmured as Jon began to walk toward his enormous bed. He usually viewed it with no small amount of chagrin. It seemed such a waste under normal circumstances for only one person. But he would welcome the expanse of mattress just now. He set her down on the bed as if she would break if he handled her too roughly. 

Jon toed off his boots, grateful for once that they were well-worn and came off with ease. ‘I’m at your mercy, m’lady.’ 

She pushed the jerkin off his shoulders, then gathered the hem of his shirt in her hands and pulled it over his head. The backs of her fingers brushed over the lines and hollows of his shoulder, then trailed over his chest and stomach, making his breath hitch. Her fingertips came to rest on the waist of his trousers. Talla sat back on her heels, head tilted to the side as she admired Jon’s body, feeling it a transgression against the gods to fail to do so. But there was more to admire, and she untied the laces of his trousers and pushed them past his hips. Jon kicked them off and climbed onto the bed. 

He pressed a string of kisses to the slope of her breast as he urged Talla to lie down. Jon’s hand slipped lower, and he slid a finger inside her. He dimly recalled Tormund dispensing bawdy advice as if it were the rarest of pearls. Jon had never touched a baby seal in his life, and would bet his crown Tormund hadn’t either. He had seen them on the shores on the Bay of Seals, however, while sailing to Hardhome. Slick was certainly an apt description. Talla’s back arched. _Patience…_ He eased another finger inside her. Talla clutched at his arms and her thighs trembled. He lifted his head. Talla’s eyes were heavy-lidded and glazed with want. ‘Don’t sssstop…’

Jon shoved the hem of her shift higher and slid down until he could nibble the tender skin of her inner thigh. Talla’s hand came to rest on the crown of his head. _Patience, _Jon told himself. 

All the air left Talla’s lungs with an audible _whoosh_, as Jon’s tongue began to move in tandem with his fingers. ‘Oh… oh my…’ Her hips canted upward, aching for more, convulsing. She whimpered when Jon paused. He grinned smugly and murmured, ‘Greedy minx,’ before lowering his head once more. _Give her time_, Tormund’s voice rumbled in his memories. Oh, Jon intended to give her all the time she wanted.

Talla let out a strangled moan, and pushed at Jon’s head. ‘Enough.’ Jon meandered up her body, leaving kisses in his wake. Talla threaded her fingers through his hair and brought his mouth down meet hers. Her thumb swept over his cheekbone, tongue dancing with his, kissing the taste of her body from his mouth. 

Talla rolled over so she lay draped over Jon. She pulled her arms from the sleeves of her shift, and tossed it to the floor. She mimicked his actions, trailing soft kisses over his torso, brushing her mouth over each scar, lingering over the one above his heart. She could feel the steady _thump_ of his heartbeat against her lips. She slid lower until she could swirl her tongue around his navel and follow the trail of dark har that disappeared into his smallclothes. _That won’t do._ She wound the end of one of the laces around her finger and pulled with just enough force to undo the loose bow that held them in place. Talla peeled them off, leaving Jon clad in nothing more than a smug grin. He stretched elaborately. ‘See somethin’ you like?’

Talla returned his grin with a mischievous one of her own. ‘A few things.’ She lightly rested her hands on his knees and skimmed them up this thighs, stopping just short of Jon’s straining cock. He inhaled sharply, catching his lower lip between his teeth. 

‘Gods’ sake, woman…’

‘Would you prefer something more like this?’ Talla braced her hands on either side of Jon’s hips and sank to her elbows, taking his cock in one hand. Her lips closed around the tip, then slid lower, and Jon quite forgot how to speak. He lay sprawled over the mattress, staring sightlessly at the canopy overhead. He could use both hands to count the number of times he’d been with a woman and still have fingers left with which to count. There had been little opportunity, and even less privacy. And never had they done this. He all but mewled in protest when she stopped.

Talla squinted doubtfully at Jon. ‘Am I doing it right?’

‘Even if you aren’t, it doesn’t bloody matter,’ Jon groaned. ‘Where did you learn how t’do that?’

‘Highgarden does have a library.’ She giggled with a sound like water tumbling over stones. ‘Let’s just say that the Tyrells weren’t exactly prudish. I found it… illuminating.’ She bent her head over him once more, but Jon’s fingers brushing over her cheek arrested the motion. 

‘Come here…’ 

It was some time before either of them managed to speak again.

* * *

Jon pressed a kiss to Talla’s bare shoulder and glanced out the window. It was still dark, but dawn wasn’t far off. ‘It’s a pity the rest o’ the kingdom won’t recognize this.’

Talla laughed quietly. ‘It would certainly save a great deal of fuss and bother.’ 

Jon began to chuckle and turned his head into the pillow to muffle guffaws, lest he alarm the Kingsguard outside the chamber. He gave Talla a rueful grin. ‘Th’ free folk would say you were too easy on me.’

‘Is that so?’ Jon and Gilly’s tales of the free folk fascinated Talla. 

‘According to Tormund, I ought t’ha’ one blackened eye, a split lip, and several bruises. At th’ very least. A broken bone or two wouldn’t come amiss.’ Jon ran a fingertip down the bridge of his nose with a rueful grin. ‘And a bloodied nose for good measure.’

Talla propped herself up on her elbows and kissed the tip of Jon’s nose. ‘I’ll do better next time.’ She groaned, slid from the bed, and found her abandoned shift. ‘I should go,’ she murmured, tying the laces. 

Jon pushed the bedding back and swung his feet to the floor. As much as he wanted her to stay, there were no hidden passages between his chamber and hers here. He picked up his trousers and pulled them on, not bothering with smalls. He retrieved her dress and helped her put it on, then tied the row of laces at her waist in neat bows. Despite the richness of the fabric, it was simple, adorned only with embroidered vines and tiny white flowers that twined down the bodice from her shoulders to hips. 

Jon traced the meandering path of a vine while an idea took form. The Small Council could demand he marry in the rites of a faith in which he did not believe and insist it was necessary to heal the wounds left by years of war; and he would do it, because he saw it as his duty. Edmure could prattle on for days about appropriate attire for a royal wedding, but Jon was damned if he let them dress him like he was a small child.

‘You want t’take back a bit o’th’ sept wedding from th’ Small Council?’

Talla’s face lit with a conspiratorial grin. ‘What do you have in mind?’

* * *

The sept had yet to be rebuilt, and so Jon found himself standing on the dais of the throne room, in front of a septon, dressed in an unadorned black surcoat with the cloak Sansa had made for his coronation folded over his arms. Jon had even eschewed his crown. Just as he’d predicted, two spots of color appeared high on Edmure Tully’s cheeks when he saw Jon’s plain clothing. 

He paid the septon’s droning no mind. _Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger. I am hers and she is mine. From this day until the end of my days_, he recited to himself, not wanting to stumble when he actually had to say the words. He suppressed the urge to yawn. Weddings for the Old Gods were brief and to the point. None of this incessant yammering. For all Jon knew about the Faith of the Seven, the septon might as well have spoken a foreign tongue. 

At long last, the doors opened, and Jon turned. Talla stood bathed in sunlight, dressed in a gown of ivory silk. She wore no cloak, and like Jon, no sigil for either House Tarly or House Stark. For each other, at least, they would only be Jon and Talla. She began to walk up the aisle with Sam, and the rest of the world faded for Jon. He knew he would never forget this moment until the day he died. The narrow ribbon woven through her hair that matched the pale pink apple blossoms embroidered on her dress, or the the way her eyes locked with his. The smile that rivalled the sun. 

Sam led Talla up the stairs to Jon, then took his place next to Gilly. At the septon’s direction, Jon shook out his cloak and spread it over her shoulders. The septon continued to speak, but Jon didn’t hear a word. Talla slipped her hand into his and held them out. The septon produced a strip of fabric, decorated with Stark direwolves and Tarly huntsmen, and wrapped it around their joined hands. The septon made more pompous pronouncements, and then unfurled the strip of fabric from their joined hands with a flourish. 

It was time.

Jon cleared his throat and faced Talla. ‘Father, Warrior, Smith, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger. I am hers and she is mine. From this day until th’ end o’ my days.’ He knew he was meant to proclaim the next bit in a voice loud enough to reach the corners of the room. He’d been all but frog-marched into the empty throne room to rehearse a few days earlier, the septon citing Jon’s unfamiliarity with the Faith of the Seven. Rules and customs were made to be bent, if not broken. He drew Talla closer, and his free hand cupped her face. ‘Wi’ this kiss, I pledge my love,’ he murmured, just before giving her a lingering kiss. 

* * *

Talla presented her back to Jon, and swept her hair to the side. He rested his hands on her shoulders, and brushed a kiss over the nape of her neck. His fingers slid to the top of the long column of fastenings, and he began to undo them one by one. She worked her arms from the tight sleeves and pushed the dress from her hips with an audible sigh and took her first deep breath since her mother had slipped the last hook into its corresponding eye. ‘Jon?’

‘Hmmm?’ He let his hands drift to the swell of her hips, inhaling the apple-blossom scent of her hair. 

Talla reached for one of his hands and brought it to rest just under her navel. ‘I think we’re going to have a child soon.’

‘O’course we will.’ Jon pressed a kiss to her temple. ‘Someday.’

‘No. Not someday. Soon.’ She groped for his other hand. ‘A few months from now.’

Jon’s hand under hers twitched. ‘How…?’ He felt the burn of a disconcerted flush spread over his cheeks.’ I… I mean, I know _how_.’ 

Talla stooped to pick up her dress from the floor and draped it over the back of a chair. ‘I shouldn’t tell you. Not yet. It’s far too soon, but I can’t keep it to myself any longer.’ Talla paused, biting her lip. ‘I hope this isn’t an unwelcome development.’

Jon swallowed past the lump in his throat and shook his head. He settled his hand over her belly, all at once elated and frightened. It hadn’t been so very long ago, that he’d resigned himself to dying on the Wall, with no wife or child to remember his name. Not that he thought he would ever have either as a bastard. He supposed the gods answered the prayers of even the likes of him from time to time. It was, in fact, a most welcome development.

* * *

Talla had never felt so cold in her life, despite the many layers of clothing, cloak, and fur-lined gloves she wore. And to add insult to injury, Jon insisted it was still summer. The moment they had disembarked in White Harbor, the difference in Jon’s demeanor was noticeable. In King’s Landing, he always seemed as though he walked on the edge of a blade. Always keeping a firm grip on his emotions. In the North, he resembled the Jon few people outside a select few ever saw. 

The Red Keep was where he lived. 

The North was home. 

Most people thought assuming the throne constituted a happy ending for Jon. The bastard of Winterfell rising far above his station. But the Red Keep was a prison. A gilded prison, to be sure, but a prison all the same. Talla felt he would have rather returned to Winterfell. Or disappeared beyond the Wall with the free folk. Duty insisted he do otherwise. 

A gust of wind snaked under the collar of her cloak, and she shivered. Jon nudged his horse closer to her with a sympathetic smile. ‘We’ll arrive at Winterfell soon.’ He gestured with his chin toward the sprawling castle on the horizon. 

Talla nodded and gulped. Jon reached over and touched her arm, brow furrowed with an inquiring frown. ‘Your sister intimidates me,’ she confessed. 

‘Sansa?’

‘We met at your coronation. She can be quite…’ Talla paused, searching for the right word, recalling the appearance Sansa had presented at Jon’s coronation. She stood straight-backed in a dark grey dress that enhanced her height. Icy blue eyes that missed nothing around her. Somewhat aloof with nearly everyone, save a few people outside her immediate family, such as Sam, Gilly, and Davos. She didn’t discourage conversation, but she did nothing to invite it either. ‘Forbidding.’

Jon’s eyes creased into amused triangles. ‘She can be,’ he agreed. 

‘She’s also very protective of you.’

‘Is she?’

‘Yes. A gaggle of insipid, empty-headed girls made the mistake of asking Lady Stark to introduce them to you.’

‘Which girls?’

‘Oh… One of the Westerlings. Jeyne, I believe. Her mother is quite ambitious. A few Whent cousins. One of the Redwyne girls. A flock of empty dresses and hair.’ Something cold landed on her cheek, and she stared up in open-mouthed shock at the swirl of snowflakes. ‘I thought you said it was still summer.’

‘It is.’ Jon glanced up. ‘Just a summer snowfall. It’ll melt as soon as it lands.’ His mouth twitched as Talla attempted to huddle deeper into her cloak. ‘It’s warmer in th’ cart wi’ Gilly and the children. No one will think less o’ you.’

‘Cart makes me want to vomit,’ she reminded him. She swallowed the sudden flood of saliva in her mouth. Just the memory of the hour she spent in the cart turned her stomach.

Jon reached over and took the reins of Talla’s horse and pulled it to a halt. He slid off his own horse and stood next to hers. ‘Come on. You can ride wi’ me. I’ll keep you warm.’ 

Two Kingsguard immediately took up defensive positions, one on each side of them. Jon shot them a resigned glance. ‘Is something wrong, Your Grace?’ asked Ser Naelor, an arrow already nocked in his bow.

‘No. Her Grace is going t’ ride wi’ me for a while.’ 

‘Very good, Your Grace.’

‘I can’t ride through the gates with you.’ Talla crossed her arms over her chest. ‘I don’t want people to think I’m…’ She looked away. ‘Weak.’

Jon ran his gloved hand over his face. ‘I can hear your teeth chatterin’.’ Talla continued to glare at him. He turned to calculate the distance to Winterfell. ‘It’s a few more hours. We can stop outside the winter town. You can get back on your horse and ride into Winterfell on your own.’

Talla chewed her lip, then nodded and let Jon help her dismount her horse. He tied it to the back of the cart, and then knelt next to his horse, lacing his fingers together. Jon boosted her into his saddle, then swung onto the horse behind her. He tucked the edges of his cloak around her shoulders, then nudged the horse into a walk. ‘Every time they call me Your Grace, I want to look over my shoulder for the queen,’ Talla admitted in a low voice.

The corners of Jon’s mouth curled up in a wry smile. ‘I still do that. Even after three years.’

Talla nestled against Jon’s chest, and let out a beatific sigh. ‘You’re very warm.’

‘So what did Sansa tell th’ girls?’ he prompted.

‘She asked them to tell her one salient fact about you that did not involve the Night’s Watch or the murky circumstances of your birth.’ Talla paused. ‘Clearly they could not.’ She eyed the distant bulk of Winterfell and shifted in the saddle. It wasn’t entirely necessary for Sansa to like her, but for Jon’s sake, she dearly wanted her approval. As Lady Paramount of the North, the rest of the region would follow her lead.

* * *

The light began to fade, and the sky overhead darkened. Jon stood under the branches of the weirwood, facing the stern visage carved in its trunk, and listened to the wind whisper through its branches and rustle the leaves. It carried the scent of peat and cedar trees, with the ever-present tang of snow. When Catelyn took the others to the sept Ned built for her, he had taken young Jon into the godswood to pray before the Old Gods. Sometimes they did pray, but Ned often talked about his sister, Lyanna in a manner that he never did outside the godswood. As a child, Jon had believed Ned only meant to reminisce about his beloved sister. It was only after life had begun to settle into something resembling normalcy did Jon realize Ned had tried to tell him as much about his mother as he could. Jon had relished those moments with Ned. He could imagine for a few moments that he was one of Ned’s trueborn sons, and the ever-present ache of bastardy receded for time. 

That Ned only spoke about Lyanna in such detail in front of the heart tree lent an air of the sacred about it. He’d taken his vows for the Night’s Watch in front of a heart tree. Revealed his true parentage to his sisters in this very godswood. The presence of the heart tree made it all real for him. The rites of the Old Gods would consecrate his marriage in a way that hadn’t existed for him in the ceremony in the Faith of the Seven had not.

Sansa approached the heart tree, Joanna cooing softly in her arms, followed by Tyrion, holding a lantern. She stood next to Jon and adjusted the blanket wrapped around the baby. ‘You seem… Happy.’ 

‘Oh?’ 

‘Contented.’ Sansa bumped his shoulder lightly with hers. ‘You were always so guarded before, especially when we were children. And no matter how much Daenerys Targaryen protested that she loved you, you seemed so wary around her. As if you knew she would cheerfully command someone slit your throat if you stepped out of line or said the wrong thing.’ Sansa glanced up at the sky through the branches of the heart tree. The last vestiges of light had yet to fade. She still had a few minutes before Sam and Talla entered the godswood. ‘For what it’s worth, I do like her. She’s the light to your darkness.’ She shook her head a little at Jon’s startled frown. ‘No, not that sort of darkness. You’re not mad.’ She shifted Joanna a little higher in her arms. ‘I didn’t pay much attention you when we were children, but regardless of the occasion, you had this forlorn way about you. You felt everything so deeply. Especially all the slights about…’

‘Bein’ a bastard,’ Jon supplied.

Sansa nodded. ‘You deserve some light.’ She cast a narrow-eyed glare at the sky. The light had completely faded. They were running out of time. ‘She does seem to be rather fond of _you_, and not the person who occupies the throne.’ She stepped closer to Jon and asked in a bare whisper, ‘Does Talla know about you?’

Jon nodded. He didn’t have to ask Sansa for clarification. ‘I told her.’

‘Before or after the sept wedding?’

‘Before. Couldn’t let her marry me otherwise.’ 

Jon’s answer seemed to assuage something in Sansa. She let out a pent up breath, and gave Jon a smile that radiated a sense of relief. ‘Then I can do this with no reservations.’ 

Jon slid an arm around her shoulders and pressed a kiss to her forehead. ‘Thank you.’

Joanna stirred, her tiny fists flailing. Sansa rocked her, swaying from side to side until she slept once more. ‘I would have done it anyway. She’s good for you.’ She rhythmically patted the baby’s bottom. ‘That being said, better she knows now, then finds out later.’ She nudged Jon with her elbow. ‘And you always were a terrible liar.’

* * *

The cold made the sky seem darker than it appeared in the Reach. It ought to have felt oppressive, but the bright pinpricks of light from the stars gave the night a sense of lightness. The crisp air carried the scent of soldier pines from the Wolfswood that mingled with the rich aroma of moss, damp earth, and peat. 

Sam reached up and smoothed down the edge of the fur stole wrapped around her shoulders and gave her a tremulous smile, his eyes suspiciously damp. He then pushed the gate into the godswood open.

The godswood was still and serene, the path lined with lanterns that glowed against the night.

Jon stood off to one side, waiting in front of the weirwood. The visage carved into its trunk was fearsome with its gaping maw and glowing red eyes. The flickering light of the lanterns planted on either side created the impression that the heart tree was sentient, silently observing the ceremony. It gave Talla an unshakable feeling as they approached that the Old Gods were present to bestow either blessings or curses. 

She prayed the Old Gods would gift them with their blessings. 

Sam stopped a few feet away from Jon and Sansa. A bashful smile blossomed over Jon’s face, and Talla returned it with one of her own. 

Sansa cleared her throat and stepped forward. ‘Who comes before the Olds Gods this night?’

Sam looked at Talla, then Jon. ‘Talla, of the House Tarly comes here to be wed. A woman grown…’ He hesitated and caught Jon’s attention. One brow rose in inquiry. Jon shrugged with one shoulder, and then nodded once. Sam continued. ‘And noble. She comes to beg the blessing of the Gods.’ Sam took Talla’s hand and squeezed it, while giving the heart tree a thoughtful look. He hoped the gods cared less about the language and more about the intent. He plowed ahead, making another conscious decision to alter the vows. Their father had viewed her as little more than a commodity, and Sam refused to use language that would do the same. ‘Who comes to wed her?’

Sam waited for Jon to respond, but he said nothing. Sansa poked him sharply in the side. ‘It’s your turn,’ she mouthed. 

Jon bit his lip in consternation, his joy undimmed. ‘Jon Snow, o’ House Stark, Lord of Last Hearth. Who brings her?’

‘Samwell, of House Tarly.’

Sansa gazed at Jon. She could never recall seeing him this delighted. Not even in victory. ‘Lady Talla, do you take this man?’

Talla blinked, and the tears gathered on her lashes slipped down her cheek. ‘I take this man.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I did alter the wedding vows for the Old Gods. It's one more way for Jon and Talla to signal they're marrying the person for themselves, not what they are.


End file.
